One of Vanderveer’s farm hands dug a deep, short and narrow grave, while another, out of sight in the barn, made the little coffin. When the sounds of the shoveling and hammering ceased, it was time. Will carried the empty coffin on his shoulder into the house and returned bearing it the same way, the weight of the dead child inside barely making a difference. Outside, he and Samuel carried it between them behind the mansion and lowered it gently into the ground. General Knox and his wife stood at the head of the tiny grave, Elisabeth holding little Lucy somewhat behind them, swaying back and forth to calm her.
The officers of the General’s staff, the closest of his official family, whom he had asked to remain behind with him, were arrayed around the freshly dug earth. One of them, who occasionally served at Chaplain, read Psalm 23 from a worn and stained bible. The mourners recited the familiar words together - “The LORD is my Shepherd. I shall not want.” As they concluded “And I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever,” the Church bell began to solemnly toll. It rang for a full minute and Knox looked surprised but pleased. The sorrowful sound ended and a peaceful silence enveloped the mourners as Captain Hadley and Mercy rejoined the group. The General and his wife stood slightly away from the gravesite, holding hands and receiving condolences. When Samuel and Mercy approached, the General held the Captain to him and then bowed slightly and kissed Mercy’s hand. “Thank you for the Church bells for our dear little girl,” he said, his eyes filling with tears and his voice breaking. He beckoned Vanderveer to him.
“I do not blame you for the obstinacy of your Church. I feel some peace knowing my little treasure lies next to your daughter and I entrust you to care for Julia’s gravesite as you do for hers.” 3
The next morning they left before noon to rejoin the Army. A small contingent of troopers would escort the ladies, Mrs. Knox, Elisabeth, Mercy and little Lucy, to Morristown where they would stay with the Van Buskirks. In the bright sunlight of another fine July day, Will and Elisabeth barely had time to say their goodbyes. “You leave on our anniversary,” she said, trying to hold back her tears. “I will write you, my love,” Elisabeth whispered into his ear as they embraced.
“As I will write to you. As soon as we establish a permanent camp, I will send for you, as the General will send for his wife and daughter,” Will replied. “It will not be long before we are together again.”
Unless, he thought, we attempt a major assault on the British in New York City. They would have the British navy to contend with. It would not be easy.
“Perhaps so,” she sighed. “Even if it is of short duration, I will miss you.”
She bit her lip. The months of safety were over and Will was returning to the war. How many more years of the cycle of winter camps and spring campaigns must they endure?
“And I you,” he said, gazing into her blue eyes and gently wiping the tears from her cheeks. They held hands for a few minutes and then Will turned and mounted Big Red. The horsemen formed up outside the entrance to the mansion. The General and his escort trotted through the little hamlet of Pluckemin and, once they reached the main road, the order came to proceed at a gallop. Will pressed his knees to his horse and Big Red responded, his powerful muscles rippling beneath his shiny coat. It was as if the General had decided to outrun the gloom and misery of the last few days. For Will, the joy of riding at full gallop assuaged his melancholy at leaving Elisabeth. Tonight, he knew with certainty each of them would sleep alone, comforted only by the memories of being together for the past several months.
The mosquitos from the surrounding marsh buzzed annoyingly around Christoph’s ears. He swatted them away. There was no relief. They found the bare skin of his neck and hands and stung him incessantly. He vigorously scratched his hands, his neck, his face, providing only momentary relief from the intense itching.
It was his third straight night of sentry duty after being ferried across from Staten Island to Paulus Hook. There were two companies of soldiers from the Von Knyphausen Regiment to reinforce New Jersey Loyalists and some British Regulars. Why do they not take their turn at sentry duty, he thought, but then recalled more than one hundred and fifty of the Jersey volunteers had marched out of the fort at dusk. He leaned over the forward edge of the redoubt adjacent to the fort’s gates and listened to the incessant scraping sounds of the cicadas, punctuated occasionally by the rustling of the reeds in the swampy water.
He estimated it was somewhere between two and three in the morning, a bit too early for the summer dawn and the end of his sentry duty. He peered into the darkness and thought he discerned figures approaching. The New Jersey men returning from their raid. Shots rang out from the blockhouse above the gate. Christoph fired into the darkness. He heard the drums signal the alarm and the footsteps of troops running behind him toward the gate. And then, a mass of men swarmed over the embankment. He caught the flash of light on their bayonets and, with his musket unloaded, he threw it down and raised his arms in surrender. More shots were fired and then it was quiet. He stood with more than one hundred prisoners in the fort’s center, surrounded by uniformed Rebels, their breeches stained with mud and grime from fording the canals and swamps that surrounded the fort. Sporadic fire came from the inner redoubt where some of the British and Hessians had retreated.
The Rebels herded their prisoners out of the line of fire, while others raced through the barracks lining the quadrangle. Christoph heard the metallic hammering from the embankments. They are spiking our cannons, he thought, which meant they do not mean to hold the fort. He was terrified at the thought of being a prisoner once again, being starved, beaten and mistreated by some cruel farmer until the end of the war. Perhaps, they would keep him imprisoned because he had escaped once and rejoined his Regiment. By gestures, the Rebels indicated the prisoners were to leave their hats and brass caps, their swords, knives, and cartridge boxes, and line up in columns of two. 4
They marched out of the open gate and immediately forded a canal where, due to the rising tide, the water came up to Christoph’s chest. The Rebel guards splashed alongside them, their muskets held over their heads. Once across, they slogged through a foul marsh, the boots of those in front stirring up the mud and vapors and making the going slippery underfoot. Upon reaching high ground they moved through a dense forest before coming to a road, a wagon’s width across. The prisoners in front of Christoph were whispering a message down the line. When it reached him, he understood enough of the English
- the Rebels could not use their muskets- their powder was wet. He turned and passed the information to the two Hessians in column behind him. One of them grinned and nodded.
Escape, Christoph thought. If one of the officers gave the command, they could all run and scatter, and the Rebels would not be able to snag them all. He would vanish in the dark woods, circle back and find a British or Loyalist militia patrol. He would take any risk to avoid being imprisoned again.
A light ahead revealed a tavern at a crossroads. Christoph and the others were herded tightly together and forbidden to sit or speak. He watched in despair as Rebel troops emerged from the barns and outbuildings. As the column resumed its march, they took up positions as flankers and the rear guard.
Christoph damned their bad luck. The opportunity to bolt had been lost. These new soldiers had dry powder and their muskets and rifles primed and ready. He marched as if in a daze, every step taking him closer to the horror of a dank prison, crowded together with diseased and starving men in the stifling summer heat, or if he lasted long enough, freezing to death in an icy cell. An hour after dawn, the column was joined by more Rebel troops who marched quick time to the rear.
Now, Christoph thought, there is hope. If the Rebels fear an attack, then the rest of the troops at Paulus Hook are in pursuit. Maybe, when the alarm was sounded, soldiers were ferried from Staten Island and are at this very moment trailing the Rebels and waiting for a favorable opportunity to fall upon them. He kept these thoughts foremost to ward off his desperation. A prisoner ag
ain. He was certain it was an ordeal he would not survive. Better to take his chances by attempting to escape.
The morning sun rose and with it Christoph’s spirits. He imagined the Redcoats and Hessians, his messmates closing rapidly with the rearguard, coming to his rescue. By mid-morning, as they were marched further and further away from Paulus Hook, he became despondent again.
He would have to act, before they reached a larger town and all chance of escape was gone. Christoph became more alert, surveying the countryside ahead, looking for cover close to the road, noticing where the flankers and guards were. He was certain the latter’s muskets would not fire, but the flankers were the danger.
The lane curved through a gap in the trees. With one of the guards walking alongside the column of prisoners six men ahead, he could slip out of line. He would not know where the skirmishers were but he would take that chance. He uttered a silent prayer and, running in a crouch with his eyes on the Rebel guard ahead, he left the road, sprinting through the waist-high rye grass, heading toward the tree line, less than twenty yards away.
He was almost there, when he heard a shout behind him -“Stop. Halt.” He tensed for the sound of a musket shot but there was none. He almost laughed in relief. Wet powder like our Regiment had at Trenton, where I was first captured. Now it is their muskets that cannot fire. Ten yards to the tree line. He would race through the forest. They could not send men after him. It would leave fewer to guard the remaining prisoners.
The rifleman stepped out from behind a large oak, pointing the muzzle at Christoph’s chest. Christoph did not hesitate. Death is better than prison he muttered and charged on. He screamed words of defiance. The Rebel raised his rifle and fired. The sound reached him as he saw the smoke from the discharge. Did he see the muzzle flash? He felt the hammer blow strike his chest. He knew he was falling backwards. And then he knew no more.
Damn that stupid assbag Pritchard, John cursed silently. My job is to provide information from agents, not sally forth in the field where I could be killed. Go with the dragoons, Major Pritchard had ordered. Make sure some of the prisoners are brought back alive. The information they provide to save their miserable lives may be useful. Easy for him to say, John fumed.
There was no way out, and thus, he found himself riding alongside Captain Chatsworth, now of the 17th Light Dragoons. More damn rotten luck, he thought. The 16th had been disbanded, the officers had sold their commissions and were returning to Britain, all except Captain Lieutenant Richard Chatsworth. 5 No, Chatsworth could not return to the comforts of the foxhunts on his family estates and the theater and other pleasures of London. Not him. He said he had to avenge the deaths of his troopers at Princeton and would not rest until the informer or spy had been uncovered and the wretched traitor hung from the highest gallows. Involuntarily, Stoner felt his neck, swallowed hard and looked surreptitiously at Chatsworth sitting easily in his saddle, eyes straight ahead and fuzee strapped behind his back. The two columns of forty troopers trotted past the rolling farms of Flatbush, the summer wheat and rye being harvested by slaves under the hot autumn sun.
The thought of vengeance obsessed Chatsworth, an arm’s length away, and brought to mind more bad luck, as if unknown forces were colluding against him. Less than a week past, John had been leaving Major Pritchard’s office. He was surprised to see Ann Bates in the hall, waiting for Major Drummond. 6 The brazen trollop had the audacity to wink at him, as if they were close friends. John had hurried past her without any indication of the slightest recognition. If Mrs. Bates were to tell Chatsworth what she knew about the Princeton raid, John was a dead man. Chatsworth would challenge him to a duel and kill him outright, using the pistols John had given him as a gift. If he could eliminate Mrs. Bates, he would rest easier. But how? More immediately, how to avoid getting shot by these Rebel raiders. He cursed the pompous Pritchard for the prick he was and tried to plot how best to protect himself in the skirmish certain to occur.
John’s informant, a pock-marked scummy rascal, who fished the waters of Long Island Sound and frequented the disreputable shore line taverns, had told him, in return for two gold guineas, of a plan to kidnap some high level personages on the Island. Whaleboat raiders, numbering about thirty men, had crossed the Sound four days ago. Instead of conducting a lightning strike, plundering and returning the same night, as they regularly did, they had gone into hiding, place unknown. Fortunately, David Matthews, the Mayor of New York, was at his residence on Lower Broadway instead of enjoying the cool breezes and fresh air of his Long Island home. The Hessian General Friedrich Riesdel, commander of the few British troops on the island, had his own headquarters guard, sufficient to repel any ragtag band of pirates and militia. That left, as the most likely targets, the wealthy Jacob Suydam, living on his large plantation, the well-known Judge Thomas Jones, despised by the Rebels for the sentences he meted out for their treason, and Brigadier General Cortlandt Skinner, formerly the Crown- appointed Attorney General of New Jersey and now the commander of the New Jersey Volunteers. 7
With only forty men, Chatsworth decided Skinner was on his own, probably well protected by his own experienced militiamen. He left a Lieutenant in command of a dozen troopers to guard Suydam and, taking John with him, rode through the early evening to the Judge’s mansion.
“Thomas is a far more attractive hostage than a mere landowner. Do you not think so, John?”
“I believe you are correct,” John replied, swallowing hard and
thinking that it would have been better for him to be at the location
the whaleboaters would not attack. As they approached the Judge’s
estate, Chatsworth slowed the pace and sent two troopers ahead as
scouts.
“We are more than fifty miles inland from the Sound,” he said.
“If they seek Judge Thomas, they would have marched at night to
avoid detection, slept one day to rest up and tonight will be their time
to attack.” John fidgeted nervously in his saddle, pretending he was
stiff from the ride.
When the scouts returned, Chatsworth dismounted and they
conferred in the darkness and out of earshot. John sat on his horse
wondering how he could find safety toward the rear of the troop
without losing face. He removed his pistol from his saddlebag, placed
it in the large pocket of his jacket and rested his hand on his sword
hilt, more for reassurance than anything else. Lost in his fear of an
encounter with well-armed Rebels, John did not notice Chatsworth
approaching. He motioned for Stoner to lean down.
“It appears Judge Thomas is hosting a gay dinner party with
musical accompaniment.” He patted John’s horse on the neck. “You
are to ride forward alone and present your compliments to the Judge.
Tell only him we anticipate a raid by a sizeable number of Rebel
scum. If they come, he is to barricade the house and engage in a stiff
resistance. With the Rebels concentrating on their attack, we will take
them from behind.”
Chatsworth held the bridle firmly. “John. Take care not to alarm
the guests. No shuttering of open windows and barring of the doors.
We do not want to give the Rebels any warning they are walking into
a trap. Now, off you go.”
He rode down the dark, tree-lined entrance toward the house,
his horse’s hooves loudly pounding the compacted earth. He grasped
his pistol handle tightly, terrified a Rebel raider lurked behind every
thick tree trunk or hid in the shrubbery surrounding the house, ready
to pounce on him before he could cry out. He was more certain than
ever that the Rebels would come here, attracted toward the light as a
moth to the flame. John found the bright candle lights in the open
&n
bsp; windows and the sound of someone playing the harpsichord so foolish
as to be beyond belief.
He dismounted, tied the reins of his horse to the post and, with
his knees shaking, lifted the brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head
and rapped on the door. A bewigged, liveried black servant asked him
politely to wait and went to find his master. Judge Thomas himself
came to the alcove, a glass of sherry in his hand and a welcoming smile
on his pudgy face. He was shorter than John, older by at least ten
years, though not as heavy and more well preserved. There was a stern
elegance about him, from his grey hair and long sideburns to tailored
rich brown jacket.
John, suppressing the tremor in his voice, explained Chatsworth’s
plan and, almost as an afterthought, added that they were not to give
any indication of awareness of the impending attack.
“My dear fellow,” the Judge replied in a hushed voice. “We must
at least ready ourselves by gathering our muskets and pistols. I will
inform my son, who fortunately is attending this dinner, and he will
see to it that it is all done discreetly.” John was about to object but
then realized he was safer inside a mansion turned into a fortress than
outside with Chatsworth engaging in confused hand-to-hand combat
in the darkness. He briefed Thomas’s son, a Lieutenant, wearing the
uniform of some Loyalist Regiment John did not recognize. He did
not like the young man’s brash attitude and the gleam of excitement in
his eye at the coming encounter. John proposed they close most of the
windows on the first floor in the back, a necessary precaution but not one that would alert the Rebels. The son acquiesced but insisted that all of the windows in the front be left open, especially in the sitting room. “Let the scum climb over the sills and we will give them what
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